A Valentine For My Childhood Sweetheart

The box is not large, and it has long ago lost its sweet cedar smell. It was a gift to me, as to so many others before me, from the local furniture store in my hometown. Each year as graduation approached, girls of the senior class received a notice to come to the store in our little downtown to be given the small replica of a hope chest; if the boys were given anything at all, I was never aware of it. My mother has an identical box, sitting on her dresser, but the tradition must have stopped somewhere between the end of my entrance to adulthood and my daughter’s, as she and her classmates did not receive them..

Inside are some keepsakes and treasures from my past, cards and letters and even the personalized condoms some internet friends sent me from a trip to Vegas I could not join them on. Once in awhile, I take them out, one by one, and remember.

With the date “February 17, 1997” scrawled on the back, a 40th birthday card rests in the box. I was born on February 17 and this card bears the handwritten message “p.s. Happy late Valentine’s Day, love, Darell.” Too late is probably the most appropriate way to describe the whole four year long affair I had with my childhood sweetheart. But, he did bring me back to life, so there’s that too.

Darell was the cutest boy in the second grade; my best friend and I had huge little girl crushes on him. His family moved out of town into the county that summer though, and I lost track of him until I was nineteen and dating the guy that would become my first husband. Arriving at the local bar, formally named the Junction, familiarly known among us as the Malfunction, Jeff steered me in the dim, smoky light to a seat at a large table already occupied by a few guys. Upon being introduced, I immediately recognized the name of the guy sitting across from me, but didn’t say anything. I was sure he wouldn’t remember me; especially since he appeared to be extremely drunk. While Jeff was in the bathroom though, Darell squinted up his eyes and peered at me over the table.

“I know you. You’re the little girl that lived on the hill.”

We saw each other frequently after that, as we were both part of a group that spent a lot of time together. Eventually the growing attraction made itself undeniably apparent, and we snuck off together a few times for some intense necking sessions. These things cannot go on forever though, and we reached the point where I had to make a decision between the two guys in my life. Darell was not my choice and I often spent idle hours over the years wondering how my life would have been different had I chosen him. We remained kuşadası escort friends though and kept in touch after I married and he began moving around the country a bit.

Two years later, my restless heart and spirit kicked in and I took a six month vacation from marriage. Darell came into town over that Thanksgiving holiday and a party was arranged at a mutual friend’s house. I blew off the guy I was dating after Thanksgiving dinner, and some friends drove me over to the gathering. There was such a crowd in the living room that I just waved hello and headed into the kitchen. It didn’t take long for him to make his way to me and give me the biggest bear hug of my life. As the evening wore on, with loads of laughter, alcohol, and smoke, we found ourselves sitting close together on the cramped sofa. My ride was leaving and asked me if I were coming. So softly, that I think I was the only who heard him, Darell said “You’d better stay.” So I did.

Our hosts went up to bed, laughingly telling us that the other bed and the sofa were available and to take our pick After many scorching kisses and tender whispers, we headed for the bed and our first sex. I remember that I had a touch of the flu that weekend and was running a fever, but the heat between us was due to more than that. There was none of the first time awkwardness; we were just that good of a fit. I don’t remember what was said that night, but when I woke in the morning, it was to find him leaning on one elbow and looking at me.

“Do you know you have the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen?” he said.

Years later, when I underwent surgery to save my vision and all my eyelashes were cut off, I thought of him and that moment in bed.

I went back to my husband for another two year futile attempt at making our marriage work and Darell went back to Texas. He came to see us not long after my son was born, and we spent a little, innocent, time together. We discussed the likelihood of my marriage ending and his current chaotic love affair as we held hands like lost children. His hand felt like a lifeline to me.

It would be months before he resurfaced. Just as I began dating my second husband, I got a phone call at work one day.

“Hey… I hear you’re single. I’m in town, when can we get together?”

“We can’t. I’m seeing somebody … and it’s serious.”

Had the call come a month earlier, he might have caught me in time. Too late for that, but we kept in touch sporadically for awhile, before losing contact once more.

Eight years later, my second husband left me for another woman and it was the single most devastating event of my life. I tried going out, but after almost throwing up on one of my dates, I withdrew and became a hermit in my own home, licking my wounds and attempting to reinvent myself. I was celibate for almost two years, no mean feat when you’re at the highest hormonal peak of your life! I actually tried to contact him once, but Darell no longer worked at the last place I had the number for. A mutual friend was on the lookout for me though as he sometimes stopped in at the store where she worked.

I was cleaning the bathroom one afternoon when the phone rang. My daughter answered and came to fetch me. Pulling my head out of the toilet, I took the phone from her.

“Hello, stranger.”

Although I had not heard his voice in six years, I knew who it was instantly. Fifteen minutes later, he was at my front door and meeting my children. Ironically, for the first time in our lives, I was the single one and he was married. He was living several hours away, but visited family in our hometown often.

I began hearing from him now and then, but things took a turn when he called on Christmas Eve to tell me he could not stop thinking of me. Down the slippery slope we went, and while I’m not proud of sleeping with a married man, I have no regrets. I felt loved and cherished and most of all, desired once again. We spent hours upon hours in bed, with as much time spent talking as in fucking. He was my safe entrance back into the world of men and sex and I reveled in our time together.

I had never met anyone who loved licking pussy as much as Darell did. He had no squeamishness in eating me out after sex, which astonished me. I had always been one to run for the shower or at least a quick wash up before oral sex, but he waved those anxieties away. In comparison to the sex I’d experienced with my second husband (affectionately known as the Minute Man), I was deliriously pleased with Darell’s stamina. I soon learned what would push him over the edge though. If I’d roll my hips upward while he was pumping in and out of me, he’d groan and tell me to be still.

“Don’t move that way, I can’t take it and I want it to last,” he’d say. We talked about the incredible lust we had for each other, both surprised at its intensity. I asked him once what I did to make him so horny. He reached out, and taking the index finger of my right hand, placed it against his chest.

“That. That is all you have to do to get me hot.”

It was during our affair that I discovered the Sleeping Beauty trilogy, a D/s delight written under an Ann Rice pseudonym. I was fascinated with the whole Master/slave dynamic and most especially with bondage and punishment. Cautiously, I introduced the subject to my lover. He was at first reluctant, then gave me my first adult spanking.

I was lying on my stomach, face turned away, afraid to look, as he began smacking my ass. The sound of his hand flatly contacting my skin cracked through the room. Once he realized my moans were not of pain, he continued with increasing enthusiasm. Soon I could feel the heat coming off my skin and the responding wetness in my cunt. Pulling me up to my knees, he shoved his cock fully into me from behind, whispering in my ear “My God, when I smacked your ass, I got SO hard!”

We grew ever more adventurous. On a road trip to Ohio, we were barely out of state, before I was wearing only an unbuttoned blouse and a pair of loose shorts. Taking turns, he would finger me to orgasm and I would suck him off, leaning across the bench seat, ass in the air. Somewhere on the turnpike, he came but I didn’t relent and kept on licking and sucking insistently. Incredibly, he came again mere minutes later. We were both astounded; I never had that happen before or since.

Staying at a little motel one night, he spanked me repeatedly and began exploring my ass with his tongue and fingers. He’d fucked me in the ass before, but only a few times, and this seemed so much more intimate. I made him lie down and did the same, while stroking his cock. Although he was apprehensive, he relaxed and found the pleasure in being stimulated front and back. I still recall clearly the expression on his face as he spurted over my hand while I probed his virgin ass. It was one of the last nights we spent together, but memorable in any case.

We were supposed to meet again a month or so later, but I received a voicemail early that morning saying he had received an emergency call to return home from hunting camp, he loved me, and he’d call me later. Later was an understatement; I did not hear from him again for three years. I could have called, I could have written, I could have taken the initiative to make contact somehow, but didn’t. It was time to let go and move on. When he showed up at my workplace unexpectedly one day, he seemed surprised to find that I was living with someone. I did hear from him a time or two before I remarried, but I considered them calls from one friend to another.

Not long before my husband and I moved north, he called again. On Valentine’s Day even! He wanted to tell me that he still loved me and still believed we’d end up together someday.

All I could say in reply was “thank you.” And I do thank you, Darell, for all you did for me and the love you gave me. Happy Valentine’s Day, old friend.